


Waiting Game

by unorigelnal (jayburding)



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 11:20:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1224355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jayburding/pseuds/unorigelnal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos is certain Aramis is coming home; Athos isn’t so sure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting Game

The message comes through by an unknown hand. A massacre at Savoy; an ambush. Twenty Musketeers dead. They know there is only one accompanying the bodies of his comrades home, so they have lost another to cowardice. Twenty one all told. No word of who they have lost, no names, just that indelible number.

Treville tells them news has been slow to reach them, and the sombre returning party are not far behind, expected on the morrow, though they may return as soon as tonight. Athos resolves to wait: he does not need to turn to Porthos to know he has decided the same.

“It’s him, it has to be,” Porthos says when they are dismissed, anxious and adamant in equal measure. His hands curl tight at his sides, knuckles blanched white by the strain.

Athos wants to believe so, but he hasn’t Porthos’ faith. Aramis is a good shot, a good swordsman, but so are the others and still almost all have fallen. All that could set him apart was luck, and Athos does not set enough store by luck to believe with any real surety that Aramis has survived.

Porthos looks to him for a response as they seat themselves in the courtyard, facing the gate and the passage beyond. He tries to dredge up something comforting, and comes up short. There are no words on his tongue but the heavy truth.

“Whether it is him or not, twenty one of our friends are not coming home.”

Porthos does not reply. Athos doesn’t expect him to. He nurses his wine and tries not to let the comforting burn of alcohol tempt him to drink too fast.

They’re still waiting as the daylight fades. Shadows chase each other across the walls as the lamps are lit, the shapes of lost men following the worn paths back home to their subdued barracks. Dinner is offered and taken up by few. Conversation is stilted where it happens at all. They are used to death, but the ghosts crowd too close for comfort tonight.

Musketeers come and go as the night turns bitter, and eventually it is only Porthos and Athos in the courtyard, watching the gateway for a man who might never come.

“He’s coming home,” Porthos murmurs. Athos cannot be sure if the statement is for him or not, Either way, he does not speak: the peace between them is too fragile for his sharp tongue. The fervent hope that Porthos wears as a shield against his fear would not survive it. Instead, he takes his place beside Porthos so they sit shoulder to shoulder, and feels the shift as Porthos leans into that contact without looking. They are together in this, whatever the outcome.

The night is long, and the dew settles heavy on their cloaks as the lamps gutter and die one by one, and the silence deepens without a word of comfort from either of them. They do not sleep, and they do not stir. The world narrows to a courtyard gateway and the keen awareness of their missing third.

As the sky begins to pale, Athos notices Treville watching them from the balcony, and wonders how long he has been there. The captain is still, immovable as stone, but his eyes burn with something Athos cannot identify in the brief moment he catches Treville’s gaze. He wants to call it guilt, the burden of command that can only be spoken to the grey hours of the morning where no one can see, but he cannot be sure. Treville is inscrutable, and turns away into the darkness of the eaves before he can reveal anything.

There is still no sign as the other Musketeers return with the day. Some stand a while with them, but they move on quickly enough, distracted by their day to day tasks. The sound of hooves and cart wheels out in the street brings everything to a standstill twice with no pay off, and by the time the sun has fully risen, Porthos and Athos are thrumming with tension that was curiously absent during the dark stretches of the night. Athos knows if he looked close enough, he could read the repetition of “it has to be him” on Porthos’ lips, so he turns away. He doesn’t want to see the prayers Porthos breathes to the air for a man who cannot hear them either way.

The rumble of wheels in the street beyond does not stir them, it has become too frequent now, until it echoes through the passage. Every Musketeer pauses in their tasks, emerging out into the courtyard to watch. Porthos rises, drawn tight as a bow string, as the cart rolls into view. There is only the driver sitting up front, and he is no Musketeer. It is only as the cart pulls out into the courtyard that they spot their returning brother.

Aramis keeps to the cart’s side as it rumbles slowly onward, one hand pressed against the wood. He seems more an escort for his fallen comrades’ last journey than the lone survivor coming home, but as he emerges from the dimness of the passage, it is clear he keeps beside the cart because his balance is failing him.

He approaches like he carries the world upon his shoulders, his bleak eyes on his boots, but in that moment Athos feels a weight lift from him that he did not realise he carried until he can suddenly breathe again. Beside him, Porthos chokes on that same first easy breath, and breaks rank before the cart has even reached the gateway.

Aramis does not see him, his focus entirely elsewhere: Porthos’ embrace catches him entirely by surprise. Porthos steadies Aramis as he staggers, not letting go for even a second, and Aramis finally looks up, focusing on his face. The desperation with which he clings to Porthos in return speaks to how his friend holds him together when he is fit to break. Athos allows them a moment of private, hushed words before he joins them, a hand on each shoulder to complete their circle. He takes a moment to look Aramis over, noting the edge of a bandage shows beneath his hat, and the stiff way he holds his left arm. Injured, but alive. It is more than they could have hoped for.

He does not say welcome, nor does he say he is glad, because Aramis arrives as the honour guard to a funeral procession of friends; it is too raw for that.

“You’re home,” he says instead, and feels the moment made real as he speaks.

I’m glad it is you.

I’m glad you are home.


End file.
